


our gentle sin

by protectresses



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst and Humor, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Some Humor, mostly make outs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5660224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protectresses/pseuds/protectresses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacob discovers a few things about himself (and Maxwell Roth), and Evie discovers a few things about him too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our gentle sin

**Author's Note:**

> very, very slightly inspired by a post that freakydeakydarling made on tumblr. can't find it now, though!

“Do you have a room here, then?” Jacob’s first real tour around the Alhambra is…interesting, to say the least. The place is full of finery and all sorts of luxury, but it’s decaying, the paint peeling, the velvet upholstery full of holes. It also seems strangely abandoned – one would think it would be full to the brim with actors, practicing their lines and preparing for the night’s show. Lewis waits patiently, of course, outside, but no one else is present. The fluttering of wings in the rafters nearly scared Jacob out of his skin, and he frowned at Roth’s giddy little laugh. Scratching the back of his neck, Jacob takes a step forward to inspect a piece of theatre machinery more closely, hoping Roth didn’t hear his question.  
  
“This is some very fine…” Jacob trails off, noticing the glimmer in Roth’s green-blue eyes. Jacob clears his throat, folds his hands behind his back, straightens a little. “Machinery.” He points to the contraption – he has no idea what the hell it is, but it’s the only thing he can think of as a distraction.  
  
“Of course I have a room. Where do you think I sleep?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know.” A pause. The corner of Jacob’s mouth lifts. “The whorehouse?”  
  
“Darling, it isn’t for me.”  
  
“So you spend all your nights alone, then?” it’s the worst thing that could possibly ever happen to him, master assassin and lady-killer – he blushes. “Not that, uh…” Roth’s eyes are roaming over Jacob slowly, drinking him in, and there’s a desperation in his face that both unsettles Jacob and sets his blood aflame.   
  
“Not all my nights.” Roth winks, and color surges back into Jacob’s cheeks. “Awfully curious, aren’t you?”  
  
“I’m only being polite, Roth.” The smile Jacob gives him is sharper than necessary, but it does nothing more than amuse Roth. He knows him so well, without even having been acquainted with him for long, and knowing that it’s a defense mechanism takes all the bite out of it. Not that Roth necessarily _wants_ the bite taken out of it.  
  
With a sigh, Roth runs his gloved hand through his dark hair, keenly aware of Jacob’s eyes on him. _Good_. Roth loves theatrics, and being the center of Jacob’s attention is more than he could possibly ask for. His informants have been telling him wonderful, wonderful things – for instance, the fact that Jacob seems to be neglecting his duties as an assassin to spend his days at the Alhambra. “Shall we go sit and have something to drink?”  
  
“Alcoholic, I hope.”  
  
“Of course, dear boy. What else?” casually, Roth takes Jacob’s hand in his, and leads him away from the stage and back into the darker, more personal places – _Roth’s_ places. This, after all, is the room where they first met. Two candles are guttering on the table, casting flickering, dancing shadows on the walls. Through a crack in one of the drapes, Jacob sees the beginnings of stars in London’s grey-blue sky.  
  
“It’s getting late,” Jacob says, taking a seat on the ancient-looking sofa anyways. Roth pours two glasses of deep, thick-looking red wine, sauntering over to Jacob with surprisingly gentle smile. “But I think I’ll stay for a drink.”  
  
“Is that the only thing tempting you to stay, Jacob?” Roth bats his eyelashes, and Jacob doesn’t know whether to laugh or throw up.  
  
“Perhaps not the only thing.” When Jacob looks up at Roth from underneath his thick, dark eyelashes, Roth feels his heart halting momentarily. He wants – so, so badly – to kiss him, to take him into his arms…but the fear of Jacob’s rejection stops him in his tracks. How many beautiful, interesting, amazing men have been too afraid of their own realities to kiss Maxwell Roth?  
  
But Jacob. Jacob’s different. He’s sure of it.   
  
_Only time will tell_.  
  
The way Jacob keeps blushing is promising, to say the least. Jacob takes a sip of the wine, one of his eyebrows shooting up at the taste. It’s good, the richest he’s ever had. “Where do you get this sort of thing?” he asks, twisting the glass around in his hand, watching the liquid swill.  
  
“I have my secrets.”  
  
“Don’t all Templars.” Jacob snorts, and the disdain passing over his face is all too clear.  
  
“And Assassins don’t, darling?”  
  
There’s no use in arguing, so Jacob just lifts a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. Roth’s lips twitch into a faint smile with the knowledge that he’s won, and rage is slowly numbing Jacob’s limbs. Now Jacob knows that however Roth got that scar, it was probably well-deserved. “Well, thank you for the wine, whatever the case.” Roth practically purrs with satisfaction.  
  
Roth stands up to top his glass off, but as he’s standing there, he suddenly sighs. “It’s too hot in here for all of this.” He strips out of his coat, left only in his waistcoat and long-sleeved undershirt, and Jacob just can’t help but stare. Roth rolls up the sleeves, exposing the veins in his arms, the still-present muscles from his boxing days. Next, he takes his teeth to the leather gloves he’s wearing, slipping them off with ease. Jacob notices that his teeth are unreasonably sharp.  
  
Shifting to ease his discomfort, Jacob tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat, his eyes raking over Roth’s long, lean body. _God_. This is awful, so awful. It isn’t just that he’s a Templar – it’s that he’s a _man._ Oh, sure, Jacob has flirted with plenty of men before. Whether they knew it or not didn’t matter. But he has a reputation to uphold, doesn’t he? What would Evie think?  
  
Roth looks up and catches his eye, and Jacob prays desperately that he won’t blush, but naturally, he does. What’s gotten into him? Men have tempted him, with their broad shoulders, the roughness of their stubble. But always, always he has resisted. This time, though, he’s not so sure he can. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, and Roth’s eyebrows quirk curiously. “Feeling a bit warm, darling?”  
  
“No, no. I think the wine’s just getting to my head.” Jacob smiles, hoping for Dutch Courage, but Roth snatches the glass out of his hand and places it on the table.  
  
“Well, wouldn’t want you to make yourself sick.”  
  
Imagine, Jacob keeps thinking, imagine his hands on you…but he wouldn’t want that, right? No, he wouldn’t want that. He knows he’s losing his edge. He has to find a way to come out on top again. “Funny coming from you.”  
  
“I care about your health, you know.”  
  
“Very funny.” Jacob smiles wryly, but Roth’s brow is wrinkled, his face serious. Jacob doesn’t think about it.  
  
“You keep staring, dear.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I said, ‘you keep staring.’”  
  
“No—I’m not—I’m not _staring_. I was—“ Jacob’s sweating worse than ever. _Fuck this_. “I was looking at your scar, is all.”  
  
Roth touches it, and Jacob wonders if he’s self-conscious about it. It doesn’t seem likely for someone like Roth, but then again, he is so obsessed with beauty. But the kind of beauty Roth likes is dark, haunted. Like Jacob?  
  
“Curious as to where I got it?”  
  
“Very.”  
  
“In a fight, of course. Bare knuckle boxing. I used to be the best.” Roth sighs, looking a touch wistful. Jacob stifles a laugh.  
  
“Doesn’t look like a fist did that to me.”  
  
“Oh, no. I was just about to win, you see, and the bastard pulled a knife on me.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“To him, or to me? I should think the latter is obvious.”  
  
“To him.”  
  
“I killed him, of course. Wouldn’t want anyone else to fall to his blade.”  
  
“Jesus.” Jacob sits up straight, running a hand over his face. “Maybe I should go, Roth.”  
  
“Jacob,” Roth says softly, his voice gentle, a caress, “why are you pretending that we are so different?”  
  
“We are different.”  
  
“Not as much as you would like to think, my dear. You have killed, Jacob. Just as I have.”  
  
“But they were—they were terrible people. I was doing the right thing…” _the right thing_. Was there ever really a “right thing”, anyway? You couldn’t go around killing indiscriminately. There had to be at least a semblance of rule. Or did there? Chaos, destruction. It was what Roth dealt in. And Jacob dealt in it, too. Evie told him that on a daily basis, and the truth was, Evie was only being honest. Were they so different?  
  
Jacob stands up abruptly, his arm brushing Roth as he moves past him. Roth – with more gentleness than Jacob thought him capable of – pushes him back against the table by his shoulders, the tenderness in his face somehow softening the scar. “Roth.” It’s a warning. _Don’t go there_.  
  
“You and I both know the feeling, Jacob. Of a man’s jaw cracking beneath your fist. Blood, warm, hot. The adrenaline coursing through you…”  
  
Jacob has no idea what to say, so instead he stays silent. Roth’s mouth is so close, and he can smell the alcohol on his breath, the scent he must wear on his shirt. Beneath it, there’s a muskiness, a spiciness, the particular, intoxicating scent of a man.  
  
“It’s second only to…”  
  
“Being born?” Jacob offers, with a weak smile.  
  
“Not what I was thinking of.” Roth’s smile is bright and full, the kind of smile Jacob rarely sees n him. Jacob’s fingers are shaking badly when he reaches up and cups Roth’s jaw in his hand, and his fingertips ghost across the jagged, deep scar. Roth’s green eyes have darkened, with an emotion that Jacob has seen before in a man’s eyes, but never directed at him. It’s powerful, heady. It only seems natural when Roth’s mouth is finally on his.   
  
Jacob has wanted this for so, so long. He yields to Roth’s searching mouth, all too ready to be devoured. His head is swimming, not with drink but with something else entirely, and he wraps his arms around Roth’s neck, feeling both safe and as if he’s standing on the edge of a cliff. The slight stubble growing back on Roth’s cheeks and jaw scratch against Jacob’s mouth, and he can’t fight the moan that slips from his lips.  
  
“Oh,” Roth says, with surprise. “I’ve never had someone react like _that_.” At the sound of his voice, the spell is broken. Jacob pulls his mouth away, though he does not move, and drops his head in shame.   
  
“This is wrong.” Jacob’s jaw is hard, his eyes unrelenting, but the turmoil, the pain, is almost too much to bear.  
  
“Jacob.” Their bodies are still close together, the warmth radiating off of Roth in waves. “I know you think that it’s wrong, with you being an Assassin, and me—“  
  
“What are you talking about?” Jacob tilts his head to the side, his mouth twisted to one side in confusion.  
  
“I thought—“  
  
“No. It’s not – it’s not that, not really.”  
  
“It’s because I’m a man.”  
  
“Because we’re _both_ men.”  
  
“Oh, Jacob, darling,” Roth breathes, cupping Jacob’s chin in his hand and lifting his head so their eyes will meet. “There’s nothing wrong about that. You aren’t the only one, you know.”  
  
“Evie would hate me. Henry would hate me. Freddy, Dickens…everyone.” Jacob rubs his eyes, puts a hand on the back of his neck. “I’ve—I’ve wanted to, for so long. For ages. But it can’t be right, can it?”  
  
“And why do you think that?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Jacob inhales sharply. “Because it’s never done.”  
  
“You must be rather blind, dear boy. There are a few members of your own gang who are doing it.”  
  
Of course, Jacob’s _seen_. But maybe it isn’t what he thinks it is, that’s what he keeps telling himself. He’s, you know, projecting. And yet – what if Roth is speaking the truth?  
  
“You…you’ve been—been with other men?” it’s hard for him to ask questions like these. Jacob relies on being experienced, on being knowledgeable. Well, unless he’s with Evie. She’s smarter than he is, and he’s all right with that. It’s different, though, asking someone like Roth something like this.  
  
“Of course!” Roth laughs softly, and Jacob can’t help but smile. “Of course, of course. Though none of them are quite like you.”  
  
“I hope you mean that in a good way, Roth.”  
  
“The best.” Roth leans forward, brushes his nose lovingly along Jacob’s temple. “If…”  
  
“I want you.” Jacob exhales, feeling as if a weight has been lifted off his chest. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”  
  
Roth runs his tongue over his teeth, taking a step forward, trying not to smile too widely when Jacob leans on the table, half-sitting, half-standing. Hesitantly, Jacob touches Roth’s waist, giving him that look – coy, shy, underneath his lashes – that drives him so wild. Attempting to show some restraint, Roth puts his hand on the nape of Jacob’s neck, and presses kisses along his jaw. When he reaches Jacob’s earlobe, he grazes his teeth along the skin, moves his tongue over the shell of his ear. His ears are bright red and burning hot. “Do you want me to stop, Jacob?”  
  
A shiver rolls through Jacob, and his voice is hoarse, low. “No. God, no.”  
  
It’s all Roth needs.  
  
Jacob parts his legs willingly so that Roth can get closer, their chests pressed together now, Roth’s hands eagerly stripping him out of his coat. Jacob’s only too happy to help Roth get out of his waistcoat, and Roth’s fingers are working hastily on the buttons on Jacob’s shirt. It’s taking too long, though, because Roth shoves his shirt up and brushes his fingertips across Jacob’s taut stomach, listening with pleasure to the soft sound that comes from the back of Jacob’s throat.  
  
Roth goes to remove Jacob’s gauntlet, as it is hindering rather than helping. Freezing, Jacob looks at him harshly. “What the hell are you doing?”  
  
“Do you plan to have fun with all of this on?”  
  
“I wouldn’t want you to take this opportunity to kill me.”  
  
“I’m enjoying this far too much to kill you, sweetheart.”  
  
Reluctantly, Jacob allows it. The intimacy of letting Roth do it, rather than doing it himself, does not go unnoticed by either of them. “I know you’re going to hold this against me,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with lust.  
  
“You letting yourself be completely and utterly vulnerable to me?”  
  
“Yes, that would be the one.”  
  
“If we do this more than once, I promise not to say anything.”  
  
“I think we could arrange that. Now, if you don’t start kissing me again soon, I’m going to hit you.”  
  
“Mm. Doesn’t sound too bad.”  
  
“Be quiet.” Jacob kisses Roth again, thinking he might die when Roth’s tongue brushes against his. Roth slides Jacob’s suspenders off his shoulders, and Jacob has a sly look in his eye that both alarms Roth and excites him.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Nothing,” Jacob says, dipping his head slightly. “Just…I was wondering if you had any other scars.”  
  
“Why don’t you find out?”  
  
Pleased by the invitation, Jacob pulls Roth’s shirt over his head. He wasn’t lying. He’s scarred, everywhere. They’re all different, too – shapes, sizes, depths, colors. Every single one is a story. Jacob wants to learn them all. “You’re beautiful,” Jacob mumbles, too awkward to speak up.  
  
Roth looks startled, and his once busy hands halt. “What do you mean, ‘beautiful’?”  
  
“I mean, beautiful.” Jacob scoffs, rolling his eyes. Roth kisses him so hard their teeth knock together.  For the first time in a long time, Jacob feels almost content. The comfort of Roth’s hands pulling him closer, his warmth, the knowledge that he actually _cares_ …it’s both unbelievable to Jacob, and intoxicating. It’s ridiculous – beyond ridiculous – but Jacob keeps thinking, _he loves me_ , _he loves me_ , _he loves me_ …  
  
At first, Jacob only nips gently at Roth’s bottom lip. But the groan he gives in response urges Jacob on, and so this time, he bites harder, hard enough that he tastes the metallic tang of blood. For a second, Jacob worries that perhaps he’s gone a little too far, but then he remembers that this is _Roth_. And he takes Roth’s face in his hands, and runs his tongue across the small nick he’s made in his lip, holding back a gasp when Roth’s hand slips onto his thigh. “Maxwell,” Jacob says, forehead pressed to Roth’s, “please.”  
  
Oh, how he loves to hear Jacob saying his name. He wants more, more, more, every bit of Jacob that he can get. Jacob’s lips are bruised, swollen, throbbing, and he’s never looked more beautiful. “Jacob Frye, begging?”  
  
“Roth…” Jacob whines, shoving his shoulder slightly.   
  
“You know me,” he says with a wolfish smile. “Only too happy to oblige. Now, darling, can you make it to the bedroom, do you think?”  
  
“Very funny.”

 

 

Gentle grey light streamed in through the grimy windowpane. The faint sound of a clock ticking drifted through the half-open door, but otherwise, the room was eerily quiet. Soft breath ghosted across the nape of Jacob’s neck, and suddenly, he remembered where he was – and more importantly, who he was with. It was a slightly alarming recollection, but he also felt satisfied. Maybe even _happy_. He rolled onto his side, watching Roth’s face; he looked peaceful when he was asleep, as if he had no troubles in the world. Lightly, so lightly he’s barely making contact, Jacob places a kiss on Roth’s forehead, smiling to himself as he settles his nose against Jacob’s collarbone.   
  
But it can’t last forever.  
  
Already, it is dawn, and when dawn comes, Jacob has responsibilities.   
  
Heaving a sigh, he slips back into his trousers and his shirt, eyeing Maxwell’s discarded clothing with a faint sense of pleasure. He picks up one of the showy coats he always wears, and puts his nose to it, inhaling the distinct scent of his newly taken lover. After getting fully dressed, Jacob hovers nervously, wondering if he should wake Roth and tell him he’s leaving or if he should let him sleep. So peaceful, so easy. So much easier if he leaves without saying anything. And yet…  
  
Approaching the bed, thankful for the worn soles of his boots, he leans down and kisses Roth’s earlobe. “I love you, Maxwell.”  
  
That will have to be enough.  
  
“I love you, too.” It’s just a mumble, barely a whisper, but Jacob’s throat closes briefly with emotion. “Will you come and see me later, darling?”  
  
“If I can.” It breaks his heart to have to give this answer – this lack of a promise – but he can’t do any better than that. Roth smiles regardless, and Jacob does too. “Sleep tight, Maxwell.”

 

 

Getting into the train without Evie noticing is definitely going to be difficult. It would have been easier under the cover of night, but Jacob is sentimental and also reckless. _Deep breaths_. It’s stopped at the station in Lambeth, and even at this hour in the morning people are congregating, wringing their hands nervously, saying farewells to their loved ones. The sound of voices comes from the closed train door, and Jacob wonders if Henry and Evie are arguging or discussing historical artifacts with their usual fervor. Evie’s boots are tap-tap-tapping on the flooring, pacing, and he thinks maybe she’ll leave him alone. She only paces when she’s absorbed with something, after all.  
  
As soon as he sets foot on the train, the footsteps stop. “Jacob?” he rolls his eyes, takes off his cap and tosses it onto the sofa carelessly. She isn’t coming to him, so he has to go to her. Ignoring her is _not_ an option.  
  
“Yes, Evie?” he does his best innocent act, scuffing the toe of his boot on the floor, folding his arms behind his back, keeping his chin low. She’s like a goddamn sighthound. Perfectly attuned to her prey’s movements and habits. “Henry,” he adds, reminding her of their friend’s presence. Evie glances at Henry, biting her bottom lip, considering.  
  
“Mr. Green, do you mind leaving us for a moment? I would like to talk privately with my brother.”  
  
“Of course.” All politeness, he gives them a bow, but as he passes Jacob he squeezes his shoulder in solidarity. So they’ve been discussing him, it seems. Henry closes the door behind him, and Jacob grits his teeth.  
  
“Jacob.” She has that tone, calm and measured. “You didn’t come home last night.”  
  
“I don’t come home a lot of the time, Evie. And ‘home’? That’s hilarious.”  
  
“You were with Mr. Roth last night, weren’t you? You said you were going to ‘tour his theatre’. Did he get you into any sort of trouble?” Evie’s eyes are coming him methodically, looking for a hair out of place. Regrettably, she’ll find quite a few. “You look a little…” she tilts her head to one side. “Disheveled?”  
  
“Yes, I was with Mr. Roth, for a while. His theatre is nice. You would probably like it.” A lie, and also, he doesn’t want her to think it’s some sort of invitation. “It was late, so I stayed. We didn’t get into any trouble.”  
  
“Of any sort?”  
  
“Of any sort.” He’s not lying, not exactly. He doesn’t know what her definition of “trouble” includes, precisely. “I’m exhausted, Evie. Can’t we do this later?”  
  
“You didn’t sleep well?”  
  
_Shit_. _Fantastic job, Jacob_. He’s blushing again. Evie looks up quickly, her mouth opening and closing in shock. “What does that have to do with anything?”  
  
“Oh, Jacob.” Evie puts her hand over her mouth, and then swiftly comes over to him. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” she rubs his upper arm, gazing at him soberly.  
  
“No!” he shakes his arm from her grasp, the shame he had been working so hard to get rid of rising back up again. “No, he didn’t.”  
  
“Jacob…” Evie almost places her hand on his back, but thinks better of it.  
  
“I knew it would be like this. I knew you’d be ashamed. Hate me.” His voice cracks, and he hates himself for it, more than she probably hates him now. “I don’t care. I’m not sorry, Evie. I won’t apologize.”  
  
“I don’t _want_ you to apologize, Jacob.” She envelops him in her arms, cradling his head and rubbing his back. He feels like a little boy again, when Evie would play the mother hen. Those days are long over, of course. They can never go back. Recently, their arguments have been getting worse and worse. But for a second, they both remember who they used to be, and how much they love each other. Evie’s silly little baby brother, and his wise, stubborn older sister.  
  
He roughly wipes a tear from his cheek, and Evie pats the back of his head. “You aren’t ashamed of me?”  
  
“Of course not, Jacob. I love you, more than anyone in the world. No matter what you do, I will always, always love you. Even when we fight.” This manages to get a smile out of him, and Evie could collapse in relief. “It isn’t about _that_ , Jacob. I simply don’t care if you love men, or women, or both or none at all. The issue is…I don’t want Maxwell Roth to hurt you, Jacob. That’s what I’m frightened of.”  
  
“I love you too, Evie. I know you worry about me, but please don’t. I can take care of myself when it concerns Roth, I promise you.”  
  
“All right.” She looks a little reluctant, but in a way, Jacob is warmed by her concern. “And, Jacob?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I – I sort of always knew.”  
  
“Knew what?” he looks at her from the corner of his eye, dumbfounded.  
  
“About…your tastes, you know.”  
  
“Oh. You did?”  
  
“It was rather obvious.”   
  
“Evie!”  
  
“It was!”


End file.
